


Tell the Stars That You Won

by LettersFromTheAsylum



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Depression, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-21 10:40:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21073541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LettersFromTheAsylum/pseuds/LettersFromTheAsylum
Summary: He digs his nails into his palms to quell the shaking. It doesn’t work.





	Tell the Stars That You Won

He digs his nails into his palms to quell the shaking. It doesn’t work.

Malcolm leans over the edge of the broken window. There’s a few people walking, a few cars in the street which is pretty typical for midday in Manhattan. The street is nearly deserted at night, though. Only problem is, it isn’t high enough. The fall will do some damage, sure, but it isn’t high enough to kill him and there’s no way to access the roof without alerting his mother. They may have had a falling out, but Malcolm doesn’t want his mother to see him like that.

He pulls himself back inside his apartment. The precinct is high enough, but out of the question. Maybe he shouldn’t jump. New York City is filled with skyscrapers, but he knew that if he took too long then he would lose his nerve. 

He could always down his pills, but dosages are tricky. He’s lost a lot of weight lately, so it probably wouldn’t take much, but it isn’t worth the risk. If he ends up in the hospital again, Gil will be on constant watch. 

Malcolm wonders how his father will react to the news. He knows his father cares about him, but he doubts he loves him. Sociopaths don't love, they only manipulate. Once Malcolm convinces Martin that they’re nothing alike, that homicidal urges aren’t an inherited trait, Martin will push him to the side.

He sucks in a shaky breath and turns around. His apartment is uncharacteristically messy. His suit jacket from the previous day is haphazardly thrown on a kitchen chair. One of his shoes is by the door, the other by the bathroom. The wooden box that he keeps hidden in a drawer in the living room is open on his desk, contents spread on the floor. Malcolm can only imagine what his mother would say if she walked in right now. 

He collapses on his bed with a pounding headache. It’s scary how hard it hits him sometimes; the desire to not be here. Not here as in his bed or his apartment or even New York, but here. He doesn’t want to be alive. 

There’s something heavy inside him and no matter what he does, he can’t get rid of it. It’s cold, and dark, and it makes its home in his stomach. That thing is the remnants of his father. 

His phone has gone to voicemail before he even realizes it’s ringing. His head falls to the side and finds his phone lying on the counter. Only three people call him regularly: Gil, Ainsley and his mother.

It’s just after noon, so it isn’t likely to be his mother. She prefers the breaking and entering approach so Malcolm can’t avoid her. Ainsley is almost certainly reporting right now, which leaves Gil. These days, Gil only calls him when he needs him at a crime scene. If Malcolm didn’t answer, Gil would show up here.

The lead in his bones make standing a laborious task, but he manages it. His feet slide over the cold floor and he picks his phone up. Three missed calls from Gil. The phone starts ringing again and his thumb taps the green button automatically.

“Bright?” 

“Gil. What do you have?”


End file.
